


something to (remind? think of?)

by icarxs



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander is filthy as only eighteen year old boys can be, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Catholic School, F/M, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - F/M/M, inaccurately presented obviously, it's set in Britain because I don't know anything about the US and I'm too lazy to research, the porn isn't even that intense this is just 2k of rambling and boys being daft, they're all legal but they are teenagers so if that makes you squick then this isn't the fic for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5771614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarxs/pseuds/icarxs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Alex,” she says, not looking away from John’s eyes. “Want me to suck you off?”<br/>“Is that even a question?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	something to (remind? think of?)

**Author's Note:**

> there is only very vague context for this: they go to adjoining catholic boarding schools. obviously. why wouldn't they?
> 
> that's it, that's the context.
> 
> everyone is at least 2 years over the age of consent in the uk at this point (16) and they're all legal adults (18) so.
> 
> i am a sinner.

The grass is cool beneath her bare back, and Eliza gazes at the stars; they are blurring before her eyes, the constellations turning into long smooth streams of light. She always forgets over the holidays how large the sky is, because in London the streetlights drown them, the electricity louder than their faint struggling light, but here in the middle of nowhere the only competition is the blinking dim lights of the school windows and, over the hill, the small sleepy village. She wraps her hand in Alexander’s long hair. She should by all rights be cold, but the three of them have been kissing for what feels like hours and instead she is hot all over. His tongue is on her.

John exhales roughly. Eliza stretches a hand out above her head, though there is nothing to touch except more grass, tumbling away from her head across the clearing; she laughs, quietly, close to hysteria now as Alexander twists his fingers inside her, as his tongue flattens and becomes more insistent on her clit, driving her onwards with determination. The nuns are horrified at the thought of one of the students of St Augustine’s _texting_ a boy; Eliza doesn’t want to think what they’d do if they caught her like this, between two. Expulsion would be too good for her. _God_ , she’s so close. The stars race across the sky in their unending rivers. John bends down and kisses her, arching over her, blocking her view of the moon, and she responds with enthusiasm, one hand in his hair too, his curls wrapped around her fingers; mahogany rings on one hand, black onyx on the other. She presses the heel of her small foot into Alexander’s spine, between his broad shoulders, feeling the heat uncoiling in the base of her stomach, that hot almost-pain, like spilling coffee on the inside of your thigh, and she pulls away from John to gasp and then she’s coming in hard spasms around Alexander’s fingers, her eyes closed, John’s hand fast over her mouth, muffling the desperate noises she makes. When she regains some sense of space and time Alexander is licking the taste of her off his hand.

“Oh,” she breathes. The stars wink at her; Alexander, even his silhouette beautiful against the trees beyond, winks too, his fingers in his mouth. She shudders deep in her chest. “Jesus.”

“Mary and Joseph,” John agrees. He gently pushes her off his lap and she goes pliantly, rests her head on the soft grass along with the rest of her, too full of sensation to do much else except go. Then they are kissing against the moon, John’s tongue deep in Alexander’s mouth, licking out the taste of her.

Sometimes Eliza feels like they’re just three parts of the same whole; she gets double vision when she’s being fucked by one of them, of herself getting fucked, of the feeling of being inside herself, of how they must look from the perspective of the other, triple vision then, three sets of eyes that see as one, six hands, three tongues. Alexander’s hands are on John’s belt; John huffs out a plea. Eliza props herself up onto her forearms, laughs at the sky. Alexander presses John down into the grass.

“You’re in a generous mood,” she says. John replies, because Alexander is busy undoing his fly with his teeth.

“Don’t remind him, he might stop.”

“I’m sure I’ll be rewarded.” Alexander takes John’s cock in his mouth and is rewarded, in fact, by the delicious noise John makes, too loud in the middle of the night-early morning silence. Eliza makes the supreme effort to crawl close enough to press a kiss to his bare chest. His skin glows like the moon, liquid with the light itself. She kisses down until she’s close to Alexander, until he sits up in the dim light, his eyes hazy, and lets John go and kisses her instead. He tastes musky and dark. John makes a murmur of complaint.

“Shut up,” Eliza says. She reaches for his hand and pulls him up into a sitting position, his school trousers tangled around his knees. She longs for winter break already, though summer is barely over; she longs to see them both in jeans, in scarves and hats, struggling to remove all the extra layers, to get cold ungloved hands on skin. She’s already bored of her own uniform, the starchy skirt and the stiff shirt and the tie; she takes perverse pleasure in one of them fucking her in it just so she can look at the nuns with glee every time they correct it for being too far above the knee, knowing what that poor skirt has been through. “Fuck me instead.”

John, who is eighteen and would never pass such an opportunity up, surges towards her, takes her from Alexander – who groans and flings himself onto his back in protest – and kisses her, harsh and passionate enough that Eliza loses her train of thought. John bites down her neck, hands on her thighs, pulling her towards him, and she wraps her legs around his waist and thrusts her face into the crook of her elbow, biting down on the fragile skin there as he pushes into her, muffling her automatic cry. He pushes one of her thighs up until her foot is balanced on his shoulder, fucking into her so hard that Eliza can’t stop the noises tumbling out of her mouth, harsh in the tranquillity of the September air. She’s disturbing the birds; Alexander groans.

“Shit,” he says, and Eliza reaches for John’s hips, stills him with her touch. He presses his hot forehead to hers; his eyelashes are so long that they brush her skin and she twists towards him like a cat, presses their cheekbones together.

“What?” he asks, shuddering with the effort of staying still, of resisting, of the heat around him.

“Alex,” she says, not looking away from John’s eyes. “Want me to suck you off?”

“Is that even a question?”

John grins at her, panting through his teeth. “I think he’s jealous.”

“You think?” Alexander snaps, with no real force. When Eliza looks at him he has his cock in one hand and doesn’t look too annoyed, his dark eyes huge. “Come here, then.”

“Yeah.” Her mouth is dry. She’s close to coming again, and when John thrusts into her from behind and she has Alexander’s cock in her mouth she very nearly reaches that edge, but she stops herself, exhales with difficulty. This, she thinks, would be even worse for the nuns, and she laughs and chokes and Alexander groans, head thrown back, long hair loose for once in straight sheets.

“Shit,” he gasps, “E –”

John’s hand finds its way into her hair and pushes her head down until tears are leaking from her eyes, and she’s so close now, but he is too, she knows both their breathing well enough to tell; Alexander smooths a hand down her spine in silent apology, his nails scratching; her knees are digging into the damp ground, September mud embedding itself in the whorls of her skin, it’ll be hard to clean with no one seeing, Angelica will notice; Alexander thrusts up into her mouth and she can _feel_ the tension under his skin, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tries to last, but it’s a losing battle and he manages to say, “E, shit,” in vague warning before he’s coming in her mouth, heavy on her tongue, and she swallows and he laughs at how wrecked she is, how blown her pupils are; John bends down against her, the sweat from his chest and her back slick between them, the heat of his skin against her, biting down hard on her shoulder, his breath on the back of her neck, and he says, “ _God_ ,” and his hand slips between her legs to rub hard at her clit and she comes around him, her vision whiting out, collapsing forward into Alexander’s lap as he smooths the hair from her eyes and laughs at them.

She groans. John pulls away – she winces into Alexander’s thigh – and lies on his back, chest heaving. Alexander twists a long curl of her hair around his finger and smiles up at the sky. For a long while they’re silent, aware that they were too loud anyway, that all it would take would be an over-enthusiastic gardener up early to end all their school careers with a bang: the monks at the boys’ school wouldn’t appreciate this flagrant a violation of the rules any more than the nuns at St Augustine’s. Alexander scratches his nails gently on Eliza’s scalp and she hums in contentment, then winces again. “Ew.”

She breaks the silence like ice on the pond; John snorts. “Thanks.”

“Boys are so gross. I’m a mess. How am I supposed to wash this off before mass?”

Alexander, with the automatic lust of all boys forced into a Catholic school against their will, says, “don’t. It’ll give me something to think about.”

The schools share the morning service; Eliza rolls her eyes up at him, automatically disdainful, but she can’t help but blush at the thought of them, pews away, grinning to themselves. John sits up, presses a warm kiss to her temple. “It’ll be fun.”

“For you, maybe. I smell like sex.”

“Perfect.” Alexander is up, brisk as always, searching for his underwear, his shirt, long-since discarded. John and Eliza would both love to sit longer, but it’s Alex who’s stopped them getting caught a myriad of time with his relentless organisation, with his bright mind always skipping on, _next, what’s next_ , and so they groan and follow his lead. Sometimes Eliza thinks that sex like this is the only time that he’s still.

Alexander zips up Eliza’s skirt; she does John’s tie. When she’s stepping into her sensible shoes Alexander catches her mouth in a long kiss and she sighs and almost falls into him, tiredness overtaking her with a rush like a tide.

“How many hours sleep do we have?” she murmurs against his mouth.

“Three,” he replies smartly. “If we hurry to bed.”

“I wish you could –” Eliza begins, and cuts herself off. It’s pointless wishing. This is their last year, and then they can do whatever they want. And they had half the summer together, long hours in her bed, languid, breakfast and lunch, showers together, sleeping entangled; picnics with Angelica and Peggy and Laf down by the lake; she’d watched John’s shoulders relax the longer he spent away from his father until by the end of August he was loose and plaint and soft in her arms; Herc had taught her to climb trees. Her chest aches for it all – she almost can’t bear to return to the squeaky hallways and Angelica’s sympathetic eyes. Alexander wraps an arm around her shoulder and kisses the top of her head.

“Yeah,” he says, a single acknowledgement, and then he lets her go. He grabs his blazer from where it’s hanging off a branch and brushes it down before shrugging it on. He grins at her, a sudden bloom across his face like an unfurling leaf. Springtime.

“What?”

“There’s no way you could convince anyone you were out for an early morning stroll.”

John laughs in agreement. “E, you look just-fucked. Come here.” She goes; he picks leaves from her hair, straightens her skirt, smiles as he brushes a thumb over her swollen lips. His freckles stand out, stark on his dark skin. “There’s nothing to be done.”

She grins cheerfully, pulling her long dark hair up into a ponytail, eliminating that problem at least. “Oops.”

“Oops indeed. Better hope you don’t run into anyone.” He leans down and kisses her. She sighs, her lips parting, and he pulls away. “No, later. Text me.”

“Yeah, I will.” She swallows. “Alright.”

“Alright.” Alexander does one final sweep of the clearing but finds nothing obviously incriminating except for patches of flattened grass, of a smudge of come. He smirks with the stupid pride of teenage boys. “See you in a few hours.”

“In church,” John adds, promptingly, leering, in case she hadn’t got the irony. Eliza rolls her eyes at them.

“Yes, alright, I get it.” She turns on her heel, waves a dismissive goodbye, bites her lip like a child to stop herself from feeling that _stupid_ pang she gets every single time, like it’s the last time she’ll ever see them. “I get it,” she repeats, but they’re already gone; she can hear the soft rumble of their voices vanishing into the trees, then the faint thump as Alex throws his bag over the garden wall. She kicks savagely at the base of a tree trunks, curses, wipes her eyes, and then she’s gone too and the clearing is empty again.

**Author's Note:**

> real talk my name is also Eliza so I had to use a different name for her and then find and replace. writing sex with my name is so disturbing.
> 
> I might write more of this 'verse because the idea of Lafayette being stuck in a Catholic boys' school is hilarious to me. Angelica probably terrifies the nuns, frankly.


End file.
